The Price of Truth
title: "The Ally's Price" wordCount: 2201
The documents Marcus slides across the white tablecloth have her mother's signature at the bottom, and my hands are shaking too hard to pick them up.
"Take your time." Marcus's voice is soft, almost gentle. He's ordered wine I won't drink and appetizers I can't eat, and the restaurant around us hums with the quiet wealth of people who've never had to choose between groceries and rent.
I force my fingers to close around the first page. Employment contract. Helix Innovations, dated three years before I was born. My mother's name in careful cursive at the bottom, next to a witness signature I don't recognize.
"She was brilliant." Marcus leans back in his chair, swirling his wine. "The original patent holder, Dr. Chen, he knew it. That's why he hired her as his research assistant."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" He gestures at the papers. "Page three. Her name is on the preliminary research notes. Page seven, she's listed as a co-contributor to the initial prototype design."
I flip through the pages. My mother's handwriting fills the margins—notes, calculations, questions in her precise script. The same handwriting that used to leave me lunch notes with terrible jokes and hearts over the i's.
My throat closes.
"When my father acquired the patent from Dr. Chen, your mother tried to fight it." Marcus refills his wine glass. "She claimed the work was partially hers. That she deserved compensation."
"So he destroyed her."
"He protected his investment." Marcus meets my eyes. "I'm not defending it, Sloane. I'm explaining it."
The waiter appears with our appetizers. I stare at the plate of something expensive and artfully arranged until he leaves.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because you deserve the truth."
"Bullshit." The word comes out harder than I intend. "You don't do anything without a reason."
Marcus smiles, and it almost looks genuine. "You're right. I don't." He sets down his glass. "I'm showing you this because my son knew."
The restaurant tilts.
"No."
"Look at the dates, Sloane." He taps page five. "Your mother signed the NDA on March 15th, 2003. Dominic was eighteen, home from his first year at Harvard. He was there."
"He said he didn't know—"
"He said a lot of things, I imagine." Marcus cuts a piece of whatever's on his plate. "Tell me, when did he hire you? What was the interview process like?"
I think back to that day in his office. The way he'd looked at me, really looked, like he was searching for something. The questions he'd asked about my background, my family, my mother.
That tracks.
The thought makes me sick.
"He asked about my mom." My voice sounds distant. "During the interview. He asked if I had family in the area."
"And you told him she was dead."
"Yeah, no, I—" I stop. "I said she passed when I was young."
Marcus nods slowly. "And he hired you on the spot."
"He hired me because I was qualified."
"I'm sure you were." Marcus's tone is so reasonable it makes my skin crawl. "But let's be practical, Sloane. My son has access to the best candidates in the country. Why hire a girl with a bachelor's degree and no nanny experience when he could have someone with credentials?"
Because he saw me, Dominic had said. Not my money. Not my name.
Or because he wanted to keep his enemy close.
I push my chair back. The legs scrape against the floor, too loud in the quiet restaurant.
"I need to use the bathroom."
"Of course." Marcus doesn't try to stop me. "Take your time."
The bathroom is all marble and gold fixtures, the kind of place where even the soap dispenser probably costs more than my monthly rent. I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection.
My mother's eyes look back at me. Her nose. Her stubborn chin.
I wonder if Dominic saw her in me that first day. If he looked at my face and saw the woman his father destroyed, and thought, Perfect. I can fix this. I can make this right.
Or worse—I can control this.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
Ask him about the trust fund.
I stare at the message. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but what am I supposed to say? Who is this? Why are you helping me? What trust fund?
Another buzz.
The one he set up in your mother's name after she signed the NDA. The one she never touched.
My knees go weak. I sit down on the closed toilet lid, hard, and read the message again.
A trust fund. Money my mother never used, never mentioned, never—
Why wouldn't she use it?
Because she had pride, I think. Because she'd rather work three jobs than take blood money from the man who stole her work.
But if Dominic knew about it, if he knew about her, about me—
The bathroom door opens. A woman in a designer dress gives me a concerned look.
"Are you alright?"
"Fine." I stand up too fast. "I'm fine."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. I wash my hands with soap that smells like lavender and lies, and walk back to the table.
Marcus has ordered dessert.
"Feeling better?"
"No." I sit down. "Tell me about the trust fund."
His eyebrows rise. "Ah. Your mysterious informant strikes again."
"Just tell me."
"My father set it up as part of the NDA agreement." Marcus pushes a small plate toward me. "Chocolate torte. You should eat something." I don't touch it. "Your mother was supposed to receive monthly payments for twenty years. She never claimed a single one."
"How much?"
"Fifty thousand a year." He says it like it's nothing. Like it's not more money than my mother made in three years of working herself to death. "It's still there, actually. Accumulating interest. Quite a substantial sum by now."
I do the math in my head. Twenty years. A million dollars, plus interest.
Money that could have saved her. Money that could have given us a real life instead of the scraping, struggling existence we had.
Money she was too proud to touch.
"Dominic knows about this?"
"He's the trustee." Marcus takes a bite of torte. "Has been since my father's stroke five years ago."
The room spins again. I grip the edge of the table.
"So when he hired me—"
"He knew exactly who you were." Marcus's voice is gentle. Sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Sloane. I know this isn't what you want to hear."
"Why are you telling me this?" The question comes out raw. "What do you want?"
"I want to help you."
"Bullshit."
"I want to help you," he repeats, "because what my father did to your mother was wrong. And what my son is doing to you is worse."
"He's not—"
"Isn't he?" Marcus leans forward. "He brought you into his home under false pretenses. He let you care for his daughter, let you into his bed, all while knowing he owed you a debt he could never repay. That's not love, Sloane. That's guilt."
I want to argue. I want to tell him he's wrong, that what Dominic and I have is real, that it matters.
But I keep seeing Dominic's face during the interview. The way he'd looked at me like he was solving a puzzle.
The way he'd touched me in the garden like I was something precious he didn't deserve.
Maybe he was right.
"What do you want me to do?"
Marcus sits back, satisfied. "I want you to claim what's rightfully yours. The trust fund, first. Then we can discuss the patent."
"The patent?"
"Your mother's work was stolen, Sloane. That means you have a legitimate claim to a portion of the company's profits from any products using that technology." He pulls out another document. "I've had my lawyers draw up a preliminary assessment. Conservative estimate, you're owed somewhere in the range of fifteen million dollars."
The number doesn't feel real. It's too big, too impossible.
"Dominic would never—"
"Dominic will do whatever protects the company." Marcus's voice goes quieter. "That's what he's been trained to do his entire life. And if you become a threat to Ashford Industries, he will destroy you just like my father destroyed your mother."
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" He slides his phone across the table. "Look at the screen."
I don't want to. Every instinct tells me not to look, but my hand moves anyway.
It's a photo from last night. Me and Dominic in the garden, my face twisted in fury as I shove him away. The angle makes it look like we're fighting, like I'm attacking him.
"I've already sent this to the board," Marcus says softly. "Along with a memo expressing concern about your relationship with my son and your access to sensitive company information."
My blood goes cold. "You're framing me."
"I'm protecting my family's company from a potential threat." He takes his phone back. "But it doesn't have to be this way, Sloane. Work with me. Let me help you get what you're owed. We can do this quietly, professionally. No one has to get hurt."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll have no choice but to assume you're working with Dominic to defraud the company." His smile is almost apologetic. "Corporate espionage is a serious crime. You could face prison time."
I can't breathe. The restaurant is too hot, too bright, too full of people who've never had to fight for anything in their lives.
"I need to think."
"Of course." Marcus signals for the check. "Take all the time you need. But Sloane?" He waits until I meet his eyes. "Don't take too long. The board meets next week, and they're very interested in discussing your employment status."
The Uber ride back to the mansion takes thirty minutes. I spend all of them staring at my phone, reading and rereading the messages from my anonymous informant.
Ask him about the trust fund.
The one he set up in your mother's name after she signed the NDA.
Who are you? I type.
The response comes immediately.
Someone who knows what it's like to be used by the Ashfords.
I wait for more, but nothing comes. Just those words, hanging in the digital void.
The driver drops me at the gate. I use my code—the one Dominic gave me, the one that makes me feel like I belong here—and walk up the long driveway.
Patricia is in the foyer, arranging flowers.
"Miss Whitley." Her voice is carefully neutral. "Mr. Ashford is in his office. He asked to see you when you returned."
"I bet he did."
She doesn't react to my tone. Just keeps arranging her flowers, white roses that probably cost more than my mother's funeral.
"Patricia." I stop at the base of the stairs. "Did you know? When I got here, did you know who I was?"
Her hands still. For a long moment, she doesn't answer.
"Yes."
The confirmation shouldn't hurt. I already knew, already suspected. But hearing it out loud makes something crack in my chest.
"Did Dominic?"
"You'll have to ask him that yourself." She meets my eyes. "But Miss Whitley? Whatever you think you know, whatever you've been told—there's always more to the story."
"Yeah, no, I'm getting that."
I take the stairs two at a time. My room is exactly as I left it this morning—bed made, clothes put away, everything neat and ordered and fake.
I pull out my laptop. I need to research my mother's employment history, need to verify what Marcus told me, need to find some proof that this is all a lie.
The screen flickers to life.
There's a folder on my desktop I don't recognize. Ashford_Patent_Investigation. The date stamp says it was created today at 2:47 PM.
While I was at lunch with Marcus.
My hands hover over the trackpad. I shouldn't open it. Every instinct screams that this is a trap, that someone is setting me up.
But I have to know.
I click.
The folder opens. Inside are dozens of files—patent documents, financial records, email chains between Dominic and someone named J. Morrison discussing "the Whitley situation" and "appropriate compensation."
My vision blurs. I scroll through the emails, each one worse than the last.
We need to bring her in before she figures it out on her own.
Agreed. I'll handle the interview personally.
Make sure she doesn't suspect anything. We can't afford another lawsuit.
The dates match. The timeline matches. Everything Marcus said, everything I was afraid of—
A knock on my door makes me jump.
"Sloane?" Dominic's voice, muffled through the wood. "Can we talk?"
I stare at the laptop screen. At the evidence of his betrayal, planted on my computer by someone who wants me to see it.
Someone who wants me to believe it.
"Sloane, please. I know you're in there."
My finger hovers over the trackpad, cursor blinking on a file labeled Final_Offer.pdf.
The door handle starts to turn, and I realize with cold certainty that I'm about to find out exactly how much Dominic Ashford thinks I'm worth.
I click.